Seduction is a Type of War
by M. Rig
Summary: Brennan decides she's tired of Booth's flirtation, and finds the courage to attempt a seduction.
1. Chapter 1

_Again, sorry I lost my POV line breaks before. Hopefully it will make more sense now!_

_I don't own these characters. _

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You pick the blood-red bra because it makes your skin glow like alabaster. Because it's so tiny it's more like decoration than anything else. Because the lace will rend like a scream when he rips it off of you. The matching panties? You smile to yourself. Not this time.

You put your hair up in a loose knot, for the moment of drama when you will shake it out, which you already know he'll like. No product; he's the kind of man who will want to sink his fingers in it.

You darken your eyes with shadow, eyeliner, mascara, until they glow like diamonds in coal dust. And your lips: blood red to match your lingerie. Your makeup is designed to arouse, true. But it's also war paint.

You step into a little black dress, the one from the back of your closet that you've been too modest to wear until tonight…looking in the mirror, you really are the hottest thing you've ever seen. Down to the itsy bitsy, lethal points of your peep-toe stilettos.

Last touch: a pearl necklace. To give him something to tighten around your throat, and because you aren't above enjoying a dirty joke. You stare yourself down in the mirror. You don't look like a scientist. You don't look like a squint. You don't look like a partner. You look like a woman who's tired of playing games.

You tilt your chin up like a pugilist and tuck a Pat Benatar CD in your purse for the drive. Love is a battlefield, and even the best soldiers are vulnerable to a surprise attack.

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You sit on the couch, watching the game—okay, not watching it, just looking in its general direction. Because tonight is just like every other night, and all you're going to do is have a beer, start thinking about your partner, put your hand down your pants, and, well…

And you know how fucked up it is. How long it's been since you got laid, and even worse, how little you care about that. This is your longest dry spell since junior high, and it's because your partner has somehow become the only woman on earth. The only one you think about, the only one you want, and perfectly—because God hates you—the only one you can't have.

And the only thought worse than picturing yourself on this same sofa twenty years later, whacking off to your Bones-flavored mind porn until your arthritic wrist gives out, is the thought of what would happen if you ever—_ever_—let her know how badly you want her. And give her a reason to escape to Belize, or Tibet, or wherever the hell dusty dead people are found nowadays, and sink herself back into academia. Turn her back on your partnership. Turn her back on you.

And even if she did walk away from you, you'd be too hard to do anything but watch her sweet little ass swing back and forth. _Oh God…_ you've never seen all of her, but what you have seen tortures you. And you just know that her breasts would fit perfectly in your hands. And you just know that raspy voice would whisper your name in your ear. And you know that's she light enough to pick up, open up, and arrange any way you want her.

So you slide your fist around your erection and picture her. _So fucked up… so fucking hot. And wet…and tight…and_

There's a knock at your door and you scramble off the couch, guiltily zip your fly, and swear that whoever's bothering you better have a damn good reason.

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No second thoughts. You know it's time. You need to gain the upper hand, because somewhere—months? years?—ago, you lost it. And he's been in control ever since, flirting with you, teasing you, all from behind the safety of his made-up line. He flirts because he thinks it's safe. Thinks you don't have the fire to call his bluff. He protects his heart behind a goofy grin, and casual banter, but you—you have to face each day knowing that he'll sadistically shred another layer of your skin away, another layer of your toughness, until there's nothing left but a vulnerable, beating heart. And then, the cocky bastard will take that too.

You need to be the woman he first met. The woman he couldn't figure out. The woman who goaded him unbearably. Met him as an equal. Not some heartsick, damaged damsel.

You hear him click the deadbolt open.

Breathe in. This is war.

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"Bones?" your voice sounds pathetic, like you're fifteen again. But the sight of her, like this makes you feel like you're that young. What is she wearing? What the _fuck_ is she wearing?

_Oh God_. She moves past you without speaking, sliding a hand casually across your chest. She kicks the door shut behind her and faces you, sizes you up. She's _never_ looked at you like this before. No one has. Is that…fear that you feel? Because she's thrown you again? Why can you never figure her out? And…and she's twirling a strand of pearls around her neck and staring at your mouth.

"What's… ah, what's going on?" you ask, swallowing the knot in your throat that threatens to cut off your air.

"I'm tired, _Seeley_, of playing games. I want you… to keep all the promises you've made to me."

"Promises?" you ask, as she places her hand square on your chest and pushes you back—_hard_—against the door.

"Every thing you've promised me with your eyes… or did I misinterpret that?"

You can't speak, you can't move. This can't be real.

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You feel it, as soon as his body hits the door. Control.

He looks terrified, confused…definitely aroused. You lean in towards him until your bodies are separated by one hot inch of air and whisper into his ear: "You know I'm a genius, right?" You gently insinuate one knee between his legs, lifting oh so slowly upwards. "I think maybe I'm a genius at this too."

And you grab his shirt and rip it open, buttons scattering across the floor. You're surprised you were able to do it. Must be adrenaline.

His breath is coming hard and fast, his face still registering shock. You smile to yourself. It feels so good to be back in charge.

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_Shit. Fuck. What the hell?!_ Your mind races to catch up but it's like you're drunk. Why can't you think?! Think, Seeley, think!

What is she… _oh God._

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You drag your mouth slowly south, leaving a faint smear of lipstick down the center of his broad, toned chest. Marking your territory. Moving lower and lower, until you reach the waistband of his pants. You smile—that Cocky belt buckle. Not feeling so confident now, is he?

Glancing up at him with a wicked grin, you bury your face in the front of his pants, nudging his erection with your cheek, grinding your face into his crotch like some sort of feral animal. He's _huge_, just like you knew he'd be. It makes your mouth water.

His knees give out, and he collapses slowly to the floor with a groan, his shaky hands holding the sides of your head. You pause, and look at him. He stares back at you, white-faced, like a man looking into an abyss.

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"What are you doing?" you ask, trying to clear your head, but your voice sounds ragged and raw. It's like your wildest dream and darkest hell have converged in one night. She's so different, she's like another person entirely.

She falters ever so slightly—you can see it. "Seducing you, obviously."

All you can say: "Why?"

She sits back on her heels, still sitting between your legs, her dress so low-cut that her breasts seem like they could just…spill over.

"Why do you flirt with me, Booth? Is it just a game to you? Or do you really want me? Because I'm here," she says, and you can hear it now. Bitterness, anger. There's no ice water that could kill you erection as fast as the hurt look behind her eyes. It breaks your heart.

"Wait, wait. What do you mean?.." you try stalling for time.

"Please—I think we might as well just try honesty for once. I'm done with hints, flirting, innuendo. If you want me, it's time to prove it." She bites the corner of her lip, her first sign of nervousness. "_Do_ you want me?"

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	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you so much for the reviews—your feedback really helped me shape this second chapter. : ) _

_I still don't own these characters._

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You focus on his eyes, searching their warm, brown depths for his thoughts. You have to be careful here. Talking is his territory. If you let him, he'll take your control back in a heartbeat. He's much too good at this.

So you repeat yourself more firmly. "Do. you. want. me?"

He doesn't answer. He licks his lips nervously, and your eyes follow the path of his tongue. The silence is so profound, you can hear the faint buzz of his kitchen light, the muffled sounds of the ballgame on the television, the sibilant rasp of his tattered shirt shifting as he breathes.

You decide not to wait for his answer and rise gracefully on your heels, looking down at him as he remains motionless on the floor. His eyes don't meet yours—he is staring fixedly up at your long legs framing the edges of his vision.

You let you hair down, shrugging as you do, so that one black strap slides off your shoulder. The shoulder that you turn to him as you slowly walk away.

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_Get your ass off the ground and go after her,_ you berate yourself. But even as you do, you still don't know how to answer her question. You can't stop trying to figure out her angle. What the hell she's doing. You heard the pain in her voice when she said _flirt—_as if it was some sort of joke at her expense. As if you didn't mean it. As if you would toy with her emotions.

_This is what you get for playing the long game._ _For underestimating her._ For thinking that she wouldn't be able to read all the signals crackling from your every nerve each time you got close to her. You fell for the lab coat, the cool academic intellect, the professional detachment. You underestimated her, in a way you haven't done since your first case together.

And you overestimated yourself. Thinking your poker face was so good, that you could master the balance of what you felt and what you let show so perfectly. You can do it in an interrogation, with a suspect, in your sleep. But she's your best friend—she knows more of you than anyone ever has. She may even know you better than you know yourself.

And now she knows how much you want her. She came to your apartment, dressed like _that, _because she knows how much power she has over you. How weak you are. This is not fucking acceptable.

You walk into the kitchen, where she stands leaned against the counter. You purposefully keep your gaze away from her, and pour yourself three fingers of scotch. You slug it in one swallow, focusing on the burn in your throat. You can see the glass trembling in your hand and slam it down in disgust.

The pain in her voice. She thinks you would play with her feelings like this, _on purpose?_ That's how little she thinks of you? That you're some kind of jerk? After all your years together, all of the trust you've built together—and she thinks you would risk hurting her for your own amusement? You know you have faults, hell—more than most men, but the _one thing_ that you can never be accused of is not caring about her.

The anger starts as pain but builds quickly and dangerously. She accused you of playing some sort of game, but what the hell was she doing right now?

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You shouldn't have let him take so much time to gather his thoughts. Because now, for a reason you can't decipher, he's angry. Angrier than you've ever seen him. As he moves slowly towards you, invading your space and blocking you back against the kitchen counter, his eyes are cold with carefully controlled fury.

"Do you really think," he asks, his voice a low growl, "that I would be so cruel to you?"

You swallow nervously, trying to mask the sudden fear that you've made a huge mistake coming here tonight, putting on some kind of pathetic show. Panic flutters its dark wings behind your eyes. You've ruined everything.

"What have I ever done to make you think I'm that kind of man? All I've ever wanted is to protect you."

His arms come to rest on the countertop behind you, caging you in. His face is so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his skin, smell the scotch on his breath. Seeing him so close—there are so many different shades of coffee, sienna, mahogany in his eyes. Your heartbeat hammers in your throat and you stay silent, because you don't know what to say. You would press rewind if you could, and cancel this whole stupid idea of yours, but it's too late.

"I flirt with you because I want you so much I can't think. Does that make you happy? To know that I struggle _every day _to keep my feelings in check, so that I don't ruin what we have together?" He shakes his head and you can see his anger dissipating into something so much worse—sadness. He looks lost, empty. "I guess my secret's out," he says quietly.

He backs away from you, the hurt on his face making you sick to your stomach. You need to fix this, to undo this mess. You never meant to hurt him—you didn't realize it was more than just flirting, you didn't realize it went deeper. You should have known!

You grab his arm desperately, your face crumbling into tears. "Booth, please…I…" you can't speak. You can barely breathe. You've played a stupid game with his heart and now you've lost him.

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It's her tears that undo you. That cause you to go back to her, to crash into her and hold her against you like someone is trying to rip her away. You duck your chin over the top of your head so that you can inhale the scent of her hair, like a drug. Maybe it can stop your shaking.

And maybe you're crying now too, just a little, as you feel her shuddering sobs. You don't know what to say—you're so hurt, so angry at her, so frustrated, so aware of her body—and maybe you squeeze her just a little too tightly, until you hear the soft groan of air fleeing from her lungs. It feels like the best years of your life could die in this kitchen tonight, and they would extinguish themselves before you find the courage to even voice a protest.

But she's the first to break the silence. "I'm so sorry, Booth," she sobs. "I don't know what I was thinking… I—I barely even feel like myself tonight. I thought that if I could just play this character… be as bold as you are, I wouldn't feel so… frustrated? Confused? Things have been different between us lately and I don't know how to react. I don't know…what we are anymore… and that makes me feel like I don't know who _I_ am anymore."

Her voice chokes and you can't take it. Can't bear to see her in this pain. You barely remember the anger you felt a minute ago. You're just desperate to fix things. So you push yourself away just enough to palm her face in your hands, but she's got her eyes closed to you, shutting you out. "Open your eyes," you demand.

"Temperance, open your eyes."

She sees you now, through a well of tears. You see your own pain mirrored in them. And so, to heal both of you, you kiss her. You grind your lips down on hers until her mouth opens to you and then you can't think. You taste the salty tear tracks in the pocket of her lips—your hand is cupping the back of her head to trap her close—you're desperate and artless and feasting on this kiss like a starved man on sustenance.

You cleave your mouth from hers and gasp for air, leaning your forehead into hers as if you're praying. And maybe you are.

"I need to know," you whisper raggedly. "Do _you_ want _me_?"

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	3. Chapter 3

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There was a time, when you were a very young girl, that your heart was completely open. You remember how it felt. Like sunlight. To be secure in your world, in the family that loved you, enough to love in return without even thinking. Without even knowing an alternative. But that was so long ago, and your life since that time…

You know that his question is not just about sex. Wanting him—all of him. His question is so simple, and so is your answer. _Yes_. You do. But saying it is something else entirely. Saying it out loud.

You know that little girl is still as much a part of you as all the other parts of you. She's just as real as the woman you've become. But this moment… you feel your whole life teetering on a balance. If you walk away from him, you'll be walking away from the hope that you can change. That you can return to the open heart you were born with.

And the irony is, you thought you were so brave coming here tonight, to seduce him. But you realize now how little courage that took. To answer this simple question…it's the kind of real courage you're not sure you have.

Your face is painted with more makeup than you've ever worn, but it feels naked under his scrutiny. As if he can see your fear. You've never been able to hide anything from him. And you can't hide this either. No matter how you decide to answer, he'll see the truth on your face. That you want him as purely as you want survival. To live—not just to work, or even to learn. To _live_.

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_Please please please, take this chance,_ you will her silently. Her breath catches in her throat and she smiles the smallest, most timid smile. She shrugs her shoulders, looking more like a child than she ever has before and simply says, "I love you."

And this is all you'll ever need. The sweetest words you could never deserve, but God how long you've dreamed of hearing them. You know you're smiling like an idiot. You feel like an idiot. The luckiest fucking idiot in the world. You never dared to expect this. Never thought she'd say it first. You need to tell her…

"I—Temperance, you have to know, I—" your voice won't work. But she smiles and places her hand over your heart.

"I know," she says quietly. "I… I convinced myself you were just flirting, because it was safer to be angry with you, than to think that you might actually... But I know, Booth. I do."

If you can't say it, you'll have to show her. Even if your voice isn't working, your body is. You're boiling over from the radioactive coil of emotions she's swirled up since she arrived here tonight in this half-gesture of a dress and her come-get-me expression. You hope she's as ready as you are, because you're not sure you could step back long enough to do this right. You've already waited too long. You are really fucking tired of waiting.

So you shove all the shit off your kitchen counter and lift her on top of it, only vaguely aware of the crash of metal hitting the floor. It's her mouth you're concentrating on, her tongue, her _taste_. She's been the center of your world for so long that it's almost overwhelming, to finally be able to show her. You're just hoping you can last long enough to finish this.

It's probably too fast, probably too desperate. You can't help it. You have to get that dress out of the way. You need to see her skin.

You pull the top of her dress down until it's just her, in a scrap of red lace. Naughty lingerie—you should have known. As much as you want to enjoy it, it's just another barrier between you and her skin, so you grab it with two fists and rip. _Sorry, Bones. _Her breasts are pale, perfect, heavy in your hands. Even more perfect than you thought. Her cleavage smells like vanilla where you bury your face in her, groaning at the relief of it. Her hands are in your hair, holding on, as she arches her back. Her breasts are thrust upwards like offerings, and you take them into your mouth in turn, worshipping. She clasps your hand and presses it to her lips, covering the palm with urgent kisses before sucking your pinkie finger into her mouth and stroking it with her tongue. _Oh God…_ she knows what she's doing.

Her head falls forward to your shoulder, nuzzling against your ear, whispering your name. It's like a balm to your soul, to hear her voice swollen with passion. You hear the clatter of her heels falling to the floor as you grab her behind the knees to pull her hard against your hips, parting her legs around you. You grind into her, forcing her to feel the hard-on she's tortured you with for the last four years.

The silkiness of her skin astonishes you—its texture is so different from yours. She's all smoothness and curves and warmth, writhing beneath your hands. So soft. You press your mouth to the base of her delicate throat, memorizing the rhythm beating there, and twine your fingers up and into her hair, cupping her head in your hands.

You're dizzy. Still can't believe this is actually happening. But you can't slow it—not anymore. You push her down on the countertop, already missing her lips on yours.

You slide your finger into the shadow between her thighs, desperate to find out whether her panties are as wickedly red as her bra. When your finger slides directly into the delicate, undefended wetness of her lips, your heart almost stops. _Fuck. _You have to bite your tongue to keep from coming in your pants. The thought of her with no underwear, under such a short dress. Standing right in front of you when you were sitting on the floor. "Oh_ my God, _Temp," you hear yourself groan.

The naughty smile that lights her face goes stunningly blank as you explore the most secret parts of her body with your fingers, tracing the slick folds of skin to their crest, finding the sensitive button of her clitoris with your thumb. She gasps and rocks her hips into your hand, arching up off the counter. The look on her face is the sexiest thing you've ever seen, with her cheeks flushed pink and her tongue flirting the corners of her mouth. And then you look down at your own hand, fingers glistening with her moisture, and _that's_ the sexiest thing you've ever seen. You insert your index finger into her possessively, nearly coming undone at the feel of her body clenching around you as you slide in and out. The soft moaning sounds she's making are driving you to the point of insanity and you have to get inside of her right now. You can't think anymore. You have to get your belt open. Pants off. Fucking zipper, come _on! _

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It feels like the room, like time itself, is swirling. Everything in your being is focused on him, his fingers, moaning that is either his or yours—you're not sure. You want to look at him, at the new reality of your partner, but he has you pinned down with his clever fingers, and you're a puddle of helpless—_oh­­—_sensation. The rapt, absorbed look on his face when he slid his finger into you nearly pushed you over the edge. His chest, his wide shoulders, the soft fuzz of hair leading down from his navel. But you can barely keep your eyes open—your mind's a riot of synapses crackling like live wires. Everything's changed so fast. And yet, it feels totally right and appropriate that he's up to his knuckles in your body, playing you like a violin.

But it's not enough, so you beg. _Please._ _Please. _He's stopped just at the entrance to your body. You can feel the hot weight of him nudging into you. You look at him, knowing things will never be the same after this. Knowing you don't want them to be, that you're completely ready to let him in, in every way. And then the slide, pressure, gasping, _so good_, blotting out all thought. His eyes on you the whole time, and his face almost tragic with relief.

"Mmm, yes…_yes,_" you sob. You tilt your hips to accept him fully, and his hands drag your body even closer until you feel dangerously open. Exposed, and vulnerable, and so completely safe. The electricity in your veins spits heat, building unbearably and ruthlessly, until your release grips every muscle in your body, lifting you off the countertop as if you're possessed, and you only hear the echo of what must have been your screams ricocheting off the kitchen walls. He pounds into you faster, recklessly, his head thrown back and the muscles of his gleaming torso clenched. You watch, fascinated by his strength, struggling to match his rhythm with your exhausted hips. He says your name like a mantra: _"Temp, oh God, I love you so much, Temp, oh fuck…"_

His climax is a shuddering spread of warmth deep inside you. The thought, oddly, pleases you, though it never has before. Makes you feel possessive, powerful. Making him lose control like that was even more fun that you'd hoped. And it's really too bad that all of your muscles have turned into limpid goo, because you want to touch him so badly you almost shake from it. The look in his eyes, the moment he opens them, is a trophy for you. You tuck away the image in your mind, to savor later.

The truth of what's just happened wraps around you. He's _yours_ now. This fearless, earnest, honest man is yours. Somehow he thinks you deserve him. You're not sure, but it's a challenge you're eager to accept. You _know_ you can be different now. Warm, open. There are so many things you want to show him, if only you had the strength to move.

For now, it's enough to lay here, get your breathing back, and stare at his kitchen ceiling. When you notice some small, orangish splash marks up there, you can't fight the laughter that bubbles out of you. Is that spaghetti sauce? For some reason, it's so funny. You can't stop giggling.

"What?" he grumbles, scowling at you, as he leans over you gasping for breath. "You're laughing? That's not good."

"Not at you. Th-there's food on your ceiling!" And you're laughing so hard there are tears leaking from the corner of your eyes. Even as you laugh, you know it's not funny, a paradox that makes you laugh even more.

Glancing up, he gathers you off the counter in one decisive sweep, setting you on your feet in front of him. "You… are so weird," he says lovingly, nipping your earlobe. "My brilliant, sexy little weirdo."

Still attacked by laughter, you can only gasp, "I don't know what's wrong with me!"

His smile lights with tenderness, which finally melts your convulsive giggling. "There is nothing wrong with you. There is so much _right_ with you it's going to kill me." He dips his head into the curve of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin.

"I'm sorry," you explain. "I think I'm just overly happy."

"Overly?"

"I feel like I'm drunk."

"Poor baby," he croons. "Too happy." You can't help but smile—somewhere along the way you got addicted to his teasing. And to his low voice, so close to your ear. He could tease you all day and it would only make you smile.

It's so easy to dissolve against the strength of him as he picks you up and carries you into his bedroom, your dress still ludicrously wrapped around your middle like a ribbon on a gift.

"Want some help?" he asks, as you attempt to free yourself from the remains of your clothing. His hands are gentle but skillfully fast as he peels the fabric off of you, throwing it to the side of the bed.

He lowers you gently, lifting your head to fan your hair out on the pillow, and collapses next to you, pulling you in close. Being surrounded by his body like this, the warmth of his skin, you've never felt so content. It feels…like sunlight.

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You could stay like this, holding her, forever. Protecting her. Memorizing her. You've never felt like this about anyone before—never known it was possible. She's so amazing. And she has no idea. How brilliant she is, how kind, how courageous, how incandescently _hot _she is. It's a miracle that she's with you. That she _loves_ you.

What a crazy night. For a while there… you thought you'd lost everything. Like your heart had stopped. Worse than being shot. Worse than being tortured. But then… this is the single best night of your life.

As if she can hear your thoughts, she purrs, "I think I did very well…seducing you."

You laugh. "So this was all part of your plan, Bones?"

"Well, maybe not all of it… but the general idea, yes. I had some _other_ things planned…"

Now _this_ gets your attention. "What other things?"

Even in the dim light, you can see her blushing. Blushing! After giving it up to you on a kitchen counter, for God's sake.

"I don't know if I want to tell you," she says coyly.

"Oh come on, Bones. Don't make me interrogate you."

She laughs, rolling on top of you and rising to straddle your hips. The sight of her wipes the smile clear off your face. Her skin is silvery in the light from the window, her hair billowing around her face like some ethereal spirit, her breasts… _oh holy_…

Her smile is slow and sinful. "I had this idea about my necklace…"

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***Phew!* Okay, so I got the idea from the last reviews that this story has been very hit-or-miss. This is my first time writing smut, and I have to say… I had *no* idea how difficult it is! Serious respect for all of you who write smut so gracefully. For those of you that stuck with me to the end of this story, please drop any/all advice on how I can improve. I appreciate it so much. : )**


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